


Back on the Horse

by china_shop



Series: Caffrey/Jones season 3 [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Dating, Episode Tag, Fic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:50:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy episode tag to 3.08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back on the Horse

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to mergatrude and dragonfly for beta.

It was six-thirty a.m. when Diana and Blake showed up to relieve Peter and Clinton from their all-night stakeout. Peter said he'd catch Diana up on the night's events, or lack thereof. "You go home and get some rest," he told Clinton. "It's been a rough couple of days."

Clinton didn't have to be told twice. He didn't mind the van so much now, after the violence of the Barrett Dunne case, but that didn't mean he wanted to be cooped up staring at a CCTV screen when he could be breathing fresh air and stretching his legs. He threw his empty coffee cup in the trash, grabbed his jacket and stepped out onto the pavement, squinting against the low angle of the morning sunlight.

"Hey." Neal was leaning on a nearby lamppost, hands in his pockets, hat tilted rakishly. He was in shirtsleeves and a dark gray vest, and he looked like he hadn't told a lie in his life, which probably meant he was up to something.

"Peter's in the van," said Clinton, jerking his head at the vehicle.

"I know." Neal pushed off the lamppost with his shoulder. "Thought I'd walk you home."

"Yeah?" Clinton looked around at the quiet street, a few people on their way to work, a couple of joggers. There was a garbage truck down the block. "You think I need protection?"

Neal fell into step beside him. "I think you need breakfast."

"Breakfast, huh?" Clinton shot him a sideways look, then mentally shrugged and went with it. Neal was unpredictable, but whatever he was up to, Clinton could handle it. "Okay."

Neal took him to a diner off Columbus ("Best coffee in midtown.") and they sat by the window and ordered coffee and pancakes. Neal put his hat on the table next to the salt shaker. Clinton watched him sit back and make himself comfortable. He didn't seem in any hurry to get to the point.

"What's this about?" asked Clinton, when he couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

Neal gave a minute shrug and sat back in his seat. "I'm on a mission."

So he was up to something. Clinton ignored a pang of disappointment. "What kind of mission?"

"Can I call you CJ?" Neal didn't wait for an answer. He met Clinton's gaze. His eyes were blue and direct, and Clinton almost didn't hear what he said next. "I want to make sure you know there's more to life outside the van than homicidal mercenaries and unattainable long-lost loves. Make sure you get right back on that horse, instead of disappearing back into the van, never to be seen again."

"I'm your mission?" Clinton narrowed his eyes. Between Isabel and Van Horn, he'd had more than his share of the spotlight over the last few days. Being the focus of Neal's attention was like that too, invigorating but dangerous. Ultimately Clinton was a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. "I do have a life, you know. I have friends."

He could count on one hand those he saw with any regularity, but that wasn't the point. He wasn't a charity case.

"Hey, that's not what I meant," said Neal, making a little placatory gesture. "We're in the same boat, remember? Living the same dream. Just because we've got it good, doesn't mean it can't get better. Things can always get better."

Clinton took a deep breath and stirred sugar into his coffee. He looked up and met Neal's gaze, bright and intent. That spotlight feeling again. "Legally?"

"Of course," said Neal, already nodding, but when pressed, he wouldn't say any more on the subject. Instead, he told Clinton a story about the FBI team who'd staked out his hotel in Las Vegas one time. "They believed I'd stolen an emerald signet ring from a prominent antiques dealer."

"And did you?" asked Clinton, wondering if Neal would confess.

Neal drank a mouthful of coffee. "Green's not my color." He leaned forward. "You know, there was a funny story behind that ring. By rights, it actually belonged to an Italian Count. It had been in his family, passed down father to son, for nearly five hundred years."

"So how did the antiques dealer get it?" asked Clinton between bites of pancake.

Neal gestured with his fork. "Rigged poker game. It was a set-up."

"According to the Count." Clinton rolled his eyes, not at all surprised Neal had been willing to risk his freedom to play knight-errant. "You believed him."

"He was very convincing," said Neal, looking faintly nostalgic, "and _very_ attractive." He picked up his coffee cup, apparently waiting for Clinton's reaction to that bombshell and its implications.

Clinton wondered if Peter or Diana had told Neal about his own dating history. Probably not, if Neal's air of studied carelessness were anything to go by. Probably all Neal knew was what Clinton had said himself—Isabel, loved and lost. To be fair, there wasn't much else to say about the last couple of years. Clinton had been in a slow patch, what with work, work and more work. Their case load had almost doubled since Neal joined the team.

"So the other night, when you came to my place and plied me with expensive liquor—?"

"No ulterior motive," said Neal. He ducked his head to the side and the corner of his mouth turned up. "Not much ulterior motive. Maybe a little. If your ex-fiancée hadn't shown up at your door, I might have told you this story then."

"If you had, I might have told you about Michael," said Clinton. "Law school wasn't the only reason I left the Navy."

"Oh, really?" Neal's gaze sharpened like a laser.

Clinton nearly balked at the interrogation. Neal was clearly aiming to talk him into something, and whatever it was, however casual or serious, it would be a terrible idea. Clinton was sure the entire New York office of the FBI would agree on that, starting with Hughes and Peter. But forewarned was forearmed; Clinton didn't have to agree to anything. "Before you get the wrong idea, you should know, you're not my type."

That didn't seem to deter Neal. He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned forward, hands clasped on the tabletop. "So now I have to ask—what is Clinton Jones's type?"

A knot of awareness tightened in Clinton's belly, taking him by surprise. He swallowed and forced himself to keep calm and casual. This was just a conversation, and there were a hundred reasons not to let it go any further than that. "The last guy I dated was a social worker with Child Protective Services."

"How'd that work out?" asked Neal.

Clinton looked away, remembering. The work hours had killed that relationship before it really got off the ground. Plus, Clinton had never admitted it to himself, but him and Dale had got dull fast. Neal probably wouldn't understand that; he was anything but boring. Clinton pursed his lips. "Six months." The rest of the story slipped out too. "That was a couple of years ago."

"And since then," said Neal, abandoning any pretense that he was making idle conversation. "Girlfriends?"

"Nothing serious." Clinton considered turning the tables and asking Neal about girlfriends, but making him talk about Kate Moreau would be mean, given her fate, and anyway, it would send the wrong message. Clinton didn't want or need to know about Neal's love life.

Neal took a mouthful of coffee, regarding him thoughtfully. Clinton didn't know what he saw: a Fed, a potential conquest, a mark? Whatever it was, his gaze was warm. His mouth quirked up at the corner. "I should get going," he said. "Apparently my presence is required in the van this morning."

Clinton shook his head. "Going to whip Diana's ass at Twenty Questions, huh?"

"Something like that." Neal picked up the check and slid a few bills into the folder. "You can pay next time," he said, forestalling Clinton's objection. "Okay?"

"Okay," said Clinton. He was still half-expecting Neal to try something, but apparently the promise of another breakfast was enough.

When they got out onto the street, Neal gave him a brilliant grin, tipped his hat and sauntered off, leaving Clinton standing in the morning sun, tired, well-fed and smiling despite himself. The sky was blue and cloudless, people flowed past on their way to work, a bass beat was thumping rhythmically from a passing car, and Neal Caffrey had bought him breakfast.

Clinton hailed a cab to go home and get some sleep. Nothing was going to happen with Neal; Clinton suspected he was going to need his wits about him to keep it that way.

This was life outside the van.


End file.
